


Reichenbach Rising

by SherlockWho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But after all that a happy ending, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, More angst, Reverse Reichenbach, Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, seriously angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWho/pseuds/SherlockWho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft’s eyes were blazing.  “I know you want to physically harm me and I do hope you have the opportunity soon, but again, I need to know, John.”  Mycroft stepped closer, his keen eyes slicing through all of John’s frail artifice.  “I need to know if, given the chance, you would lay down your life for the life of Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>How different would things have been if John's sacrifice had prevented the Reichenbach Fall?</p><p>Serious heartache ahead.  If you aren't into the Baker Street Boys having strong feelings for each other, please skip this, because all of it is predicated on that assumption.</p><p>Liberties have been taken.  I regret nothing except for the lack of beta or Britpicking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Failure to Fall/Back to the Start

**1.**   
**THE DIOGENES CLUB**

“Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac.”

For the first time in ages, Mycroft lost his composure.  “I never inten—I never dreamt—“

“So this,” John sputtered, rage building in his chest as he reviewed the papers again, “ _this_ is what you were trying to tell me, isn’t it? _Watch his back, ‘cause I’ve made a mistake._ ”  He slapped the papers down on the table beside him and leaned back, because _dear God_ if he didn’t he’d instead lean forward and knock Mycroft’s newly-fixed teeth in.  “How did you meet him?” he asked instead.

Mycroft took a deep breath, clearly intending to answer the question, and John watched something shift inside him.  For just a moment John thought he was looking into Sherlock’s face; the brothers were capable of familial similarity when it came to moments of epiphany at least.  “You _care_ about him, don’t you, John?”

John’s jaw snapped shut and he glared.  “What?”

A sharp steel edge had appeared in Mycroft’s eyes, and John was not sure he’d ever seen in the man anything so dangerous.  “I’m talking about _sentiment_ , Doctor Watson.  I’m talking about feelings and caring and . . . _love_.”

“I—what?”

Mycroft had never been so self-possessed; actually, the wild look in his eyes seemed more _possessed_ than self-possessed, and John’s rage, while justified and quite incendiary, took a backseat to something that burned brighter in that moment.  “We aren’t given the time to take the long way ‘round this.  I need to know, quite simply, if you would die to save my brother’s life.”

“Mycroft, what are you asking?”

“I know already you would kill for him.  Would you, in fact, consent to die for him?”

John stood, and the clumsiness of the movement knocked the papers off the table next to him.  “Something is going to kill him,” he said, his hands rolling into tight fists.  “Or someone.”

“That’s the outcome of his plan, yes.”

“Moriarty.”

Mycroft’s eyes were blazing.  “I know you want to physically harm me and I do hope you have the opportunity soon, but again, I need to know, John.”  Mycroft stepped closer, his keen eyes slicing through all of John’s frail artifice.  “I need to know if, given the chance, you would lay down your life for the life of Sherlock Holmes.”

**2.**   
**ST. BART’S LAB**

Sherlock bounced a rubber ball against the wall of the lab at St. Bart’s, waiting.  This was not good.  John was supposed to be here.  Sherlock’s timing hinged on John following his old patterns.  John would want to be along because things were coming to a head.  He’d even sent John a message to ensure it.  Where was he?

He sighed, caught the ball, and held it in his tight fist.  His timing was slipping, but perhaps it wasn’t too late.  He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed into it quickly.

_Come and play.  Bart’s Hospital rooftop. –SH_

He paused, thinking he had to spice up the invitation.

_PS. Got something of yours you might want back._

He stared at the door of the lab and frowned.  “Come on, John.  I need you to go so you won’t be here for this.”

The responding text on his mobile came too fast.

_Oh-ho, on the contrary, my dear.  I have something of yours. –J_

The next text followed three seconds later and was nothing but a link.  Sherlock clicked it and, once he’d adjusted to the view and the context, felt his world begin to tilt.

**3.**   
**ROLAND-KERR FURTHER EDUCATION COLLEGE, PT. 1**

_SCENE: Roland-Kerr Further Education College.  A familiar classroom is harshly lit.  JOHN sits in the chair Sherlock had once inhabited.  MORIARTY sits across from him in a chair once inhabited by Jefferson Hope, the long-dead cabbie.  He looks into the camera and smiles as though surprised they’ve been joined by an audience.  JOHN stares at the table in front of him._

MORIARTY: Ah!  Sherlock, so glad you could join us.  It really is a delightful little surprise, isn’t it?  All the way around, I think.  John, don’t you agree?

_JOHN lifts his head and nods once, sharply, then returns his gaze to its previous position._

MORIARTY: A little nervous, I think.  Not that I blame him.  It’s not every day a man at arms decides to lay down his life for a . . . _friend_.

_JOHN lifts his head again, but this time his eyes are full of fire._

JOHN: Can we just get this over with?

MORIARTY: ( _laughs_ ) So impatient!  It is quite remarkable how you found this one on your own, Sherlock.  Finding a good pet shouldn’t be so easy.

_JOHN lets out a sharp bark of laughter._

JOHN: Is that what you think this is?  Loyalty?  Because it’s not.

MORIARTY: What is it then, oh doctor?

JOHN: It’s just another of your games, _Richard Brook._

MORIARTY: Oh, it’s not _my_ game, Johnny.  Not at all my game.

JOHN: I know that, yeah?  I know that.  It’s Sherlock playing his little games.  So fine, give me the pill, I’ll take it, you’ll give him a fright, and as soon as I get a chance I’ll find a new place to kip.

_Sherlock gasps and jumps up from the floor of the lab at St. Bart’s.  He rushes out into traffic and flags a cab, all the while unable to tear his eyes from the video feed._

MORIARTY: That’s quite the speech, Doctor Watson.  I’m not sure I can believe you, though.  You’ve always been his friend, haven’t you?

_JOHN closes his eyes._

JOHN: I’ve tried.  Doesn’t matter.  He’s not been a friend to me. 

MORIARTY: Tell me.

JOHN: No.  Mycroft has already explained everything: how Kitty Riley was right, how none of this is real.  So fine, film this last bit, have somebody come in to read over my parts and make it sound like I’m making some grand declaration, and let me get out of here.

_MORIARTY howls with laughter._

MORIARTY: You know, Sherlock, I had a completely different plan for how to solve our last problem.  It was going to be a beautiful symphony of symbolism—but I got the impression you were catching on to me.  Yes, it’s true!  I got a bit eager after all, left too many clues.  I always do that.  You can call it sentiment if you must, but we both know it wasn’t that.  So rather, call it doubt.  It’s just so hard for me to believe that you’re real, you know?  You can’t possibly be that good, can you?  But yes, you can!  I know you can!  You met with Molly Hooper didn’t you, you clever, clever boy!

JOHN: Oh, for God’s sake.  Where are the pills?

MORIARTY: Don’t you want to know what he said to Molly, John?

JOHN: No!  Because it’s all bollocks!  I don’t know who’s lying to whom anymore, and I don’t care.  I only know that once I’ve acted through this bit I’ll be able to get the hell out of it.

MORIARTY:  Your exit will be far more permanent than you might think, Johnny.

JOHN: Yes, fine, stop talking and give me the damned pill already.

MORIARTY: Oh, do you not know how this works? 

_MORIARTY motions off camera and two hands appear holding two small bottles, each containing a single capsule, identical in every detail.  MORIARTY carefully takes the bottles and grins at JOHN as he places them on the table._

MORIARTY: You have to choose, Johnny boy.  Which pill will kill you and which will set you free?

_JOHN stares hard at the two bottles and Sherlock notices that both of his hands are perfectly still._

JOHN: They’re the same.

MORIARTY: No, they’re not.  You know better than that.

JOHN: One of them has a placebo, the other has a poison.

MORIARTY: That’s right.

JOHN: Not much for me to go on.

MORIARTY:  How about now?

_MORIARTY slides one of the bottles closer to JOHN._

MORIARTY:  But you know this part, don’t you?  _A Study in Pink_ , wasn’t it?  So tell me, John Watson, which bottle? 

_JOHN snatches a bottle off the table and angrily twists the top off._

JOHN ( _impatiently_ ): Aren’t you supposed to take the other one?

MORIARTY: Very good.  Yes, yes I am.

_MORIARTY opens the other bottle and lifts the pill to his lips, as does JOHN.  Sherlock pounds the seat of the cab as it approaches the college.  Both MORIARTY and JOHN swallow their pills._

JOHN: Can I go now?

MORIARTY ( _sympathetically_ ): Of course.  But you won’t go far, Doctor Watson.

_Sherlock screams in the back of the cab._

JOHN: What do you mean?

MORIARTY:  The truth is, Johnny boy, your friend Sherlock was no fraud.  There is no _Richard Brook_ , you idiot.  This has all been real, and now I think I’ve finally done what I promised at the pool—I’ve burned the very heart out of Sherlock Holmes.

_JOHN swallows visibly and falls to his knees._

MORIARTY: Feeling it now, are you?  Sherlock, you’re probably very close.  Not close enough, I’m afraid.  Gotta dash, sorry.  Catch me if you can!

_Video feed ends._

**4.**   
**ROLAND-KERR FURTHER EDUCATION COLLEGE, PT. 2**

There were no cars parked in front of the Roland-Kerr Further Education College when Sherlock’s cab pulled up and deposited him, knock-kneed and practically hyperventilating, at the entrance.  The doors were still unlocked and he made his desperate, clumsy way up to the room he remembered vividly from eighteen months prior.  The sound of sirens pierced the night as he laid eyes on his flat mate, his blogger, and his best friend.

 _Please_ , he thought to himself.  _Not this._

He rushed to John’s side and lifted his wrist.  A very, very weak pulse fluttered there.

A thin sound rasped from John’s lips.  “Friends,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, whipping off his coat and kneeling before John.

“Friends . . .”

Was this an apology for the doubt Sherlock had heard in the video transmission?  Was this a statement of fact?  Was this the opening for one of John’s long-winded diatribes? 

“This isn’t the time, John,” Sherlock said, leaning over his friend and placing his mouth over John’s.  _Have to breathe for him until the paramedics arrive,_ he thought to himself.

John moved his head away.  “No.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Sherlock said.

“No . . .time.”  John’s eyes drooped shut and he held his hand out to Sherlock’s face.  His fingers barely touched Sherlock’s cheek, but he felt them like a brand on his skin.  “Don’t . . .regret.  Worth it.”

And then John was gone, his head dropped back and his limbs fallen in a final repose.

Sherlock made a noise he’d never made before, a low, hollow groan of horror, before he dove back in and again tried breathing for both of them.  Panic was making it difficult; he was more hiccupping than breathing, more gasping than exhaling, trying to draw as much air as he could into his own lungs to compensate for the terror flooding his mind, and his body was loath to give any of it to John.

Emergency services arrived and stormed through the building until they found him there, still administering what aid he could, but it quickly became apparent it was pointless effort.  Sherlock could barely breathe himself, and his lips were too tender against John’s, too hopelessly gentle and desperately emotional.  It was a full five minutes later that the paramedics called the code, and it took another minute to pry Sherlock away from John’s body. 

Mycroft was there, of course, and he was already frantic to forget what he saw: his baby brother on his knees, sprawled out over the still body of an ex-army doctor, kissing him, tears streaking his cheeks.

 _No greater love_ , Mycroft thought to himself as he watched the medics strap his brother down and administer the sedative.  Sherlock bucked against his restraints until he went still.


	2. The Fall of the Reichenbach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But . . .John. John wanted to be my friend. He thought I was—well, you heard him. He thought I was amazing, brilliant. He laughed with me. He helped me and supported me and defended me. I think . . .I think he . . .”
> 
> “You think he died for you.”

**5.**   
**BAKER STREET, PT. 1 (MRS. HUDSON)**

Exoneration was not the blessing everyone else expected it to be—at least, it wasn’t to Sherlock.  The papers had printed a full retraction once Mycroft produced the surveillance he’d kept on Moriarty, who had inexplicably vanished.  After a thorough review, Lestrade had been reinstated to his full position as a Detective Inspector, and Sherlock had even been granted credentials as a “consultant” to the Met.

Like he could be arsed to notice.

“ _Don’t regret_.  What did he mean?” he asked as he stormed through the flat.  Mrs. Hudson watched him from the door, her hands clasped in front of her.  “Did he mean that he had no regrets, or that I shouldn’t regret?  And _what_ shouldn’t I regret?  What?”  Sherlock turned to her, his eyes blazing.

“Why don’t you sit down, Sherlock?” she asked, her voice quavering.  “Let me make you a cuppa.”

“No, no time,” he said as he turned his back on her, his voice too loud and too forceful as it always seemed to be anymore.  “I have to find him.  He must be stopped.  He has to . . .”  His voice trailed off, but it wasn’t for lack of an end to the sentence.  Sherlock turned over his shoulder and Mrs. Hudson saw something massive and dark and sinister in his glare.  “He will pay.”

It was right about this time that she thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to flee.  She’d seen him in his moods before, but this was far beyond anything she could remember.  “Sherlock, the service—“

His fists clenched.  He was still faced away, but Emma Hudson could well enough imagine the expression on his face.  She’d seen flashes of it ever since his brother had returned him, heavily sedated and mumbling, to Baker Street.  She’d rather never see it again, thank you very much.

“I won’t be going.”

“You’re supposed to deliver a eulogy, Sherlock.”

“Right.  And while I’m blathering on about what a daft-but-noble man he was, his murderer drifts farther away.  Yes, that makes it so much more important, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Go away,” he said, but his voice wasn’t unkind.  It was soft, hushed.  The moment crystallized until Mrs. Hudson could see every mote of dust as it swirled through the flat, and it very nearly seemed to her that John’s possessions grew more . . . _energetic_?  Was that right?  His presence was magnified in the sitting room, almost as though he were there, somehow.  She could damned near hear his chiding voice:

_“Sherlock, just stop it.  Stop this.  Have a cup of tea and go to the damned service already, you great berk.”_

“He wouldn’t want you to be like this,” she whispered.

“Please,” Sherlock whispered, the fight draining out of his limbs as he reached for his violin.  “Please go.  Say something . . .for me.  Say it all for me.”

She didn’t have to see his face to feel the tears on his cheeks.  She could feel them trembling in the violin’s heartbroken voice as she slowly made her way down the stairs, favoring her bum hip and shaking her head sadly at Lestrade.

“You tried,” he said to her.  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

She screwed up her features and buried her face against his shoulder as several members of the Met’s finest set up a watch in the sitting room.

**6.**   
**BAKER STREET, PT. 2 (SHERLOCK)**

Every day was a Danger Day, and every night was a Danger Night. 

Of course Sherlock knew he was being watched.  It was hard not to notice when there was always someone there, be it Mrs. Hudson and her relentless attempts to cheer him or Lestrade with some stupid excuse about cold cases or even Molly dragging random body parts to him for his inspection.  When it wasn’t any of them—or _Mycroft_ , of all people—it was a silent sentry sent from Scotland Yard or, worse, MI5. 

 _Not exactly the best use of government agents_ , he thought to himself but didn’t say aloud, not even to his meddlesome brother.

He knew why they were there.  They were supposed to be doing the job John once did—watching him so he didn’t dip into some secret supply.  They couldn’t stop him from smoking, but they could drag him bodily to a holding cell somewhere, or worse, they could section him and send him to a _safer place_.

They were right to worry.  They were right to watch.

Because Sherlock, eternally stoic and controlled Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes, was suffering.  He faced away from the current crew of officers Lestrade had dropped off when he’d come to escort Mrs. Hudson to that damned _service_ and he played his violin.  He poured all of his suffering into what he played, and today it was quite a bit of suffering.  Today was John’s memorial service.

After a brief warm up of arpeggios, Sherlock decided to play a modern piece called _Requiem for a Dream_ , because John had once requested it and listened to it with a sincere, heartbreaking delight.  Sherlock played it for John’s shade.  He played it for the corners of the flat that hadn’t yet realized John was gone.  He closed his eyes and played it for himself, for the momentary reprieve of believing John was listening, sitting in what had become his chair, delighted and transported by this simplistic, populist twaddle.  His body swayed with the sound, his soul straining up to touch—what?  There was no afterlife, of that he was certain.  When it was over, it was over, and for John Watson it was all over.  Sherlock could only hope for that same peace and silence once he had ended Moriarty’s games.  And yes, he would find a way to end himself.  It wasn’t open for debate.  He would slip the clutches of Mycroft’s various devices and find for himself that lovely peace and silence.

But this wasn’t the time for peace and silence.  This was the time for sound, and Sherlock filled the flat with sound and did not notice or even care that two of the five officers assigned to his detail became upset over the sound.  This wasn’t for them.  This was for John. 

_Farewell, John.  Farewell, my Heart._

**7.**   
**BAKER STREET, PT. 3 (LESTRADE)**

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Lestrade watched Sherlock ignore him and frowned.  It had been three weeks since the death of Dr. John Watson and things weren’t getting any better; in fact, it could be easily said that they were getting exponentially worse.  As far as any of the watchers could tell, the only sustenance Sherlock took was given to him intravenously after a collapse, and the collapses grew more frequent as he wasted away.  He didn’t seem the least bit willing to admit that he was slowly killing himself, and he certainly had no interest in acknowledging that his old method of not eating during a case wasn’t doing him any good this time.

“You scared the woman half out of her mind, Sherlock.”

A slight shrug, then that faraway expression reappeared.  His parched lips started moving; Lestrade had no idea what Sherlock was murmuring and wondered if it was even in English.

“You are not to go near Kitty Riley again, do you understand?”

Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes met his finally, and he sneered.  “Then one of you lot should tell me where Moriarty is.”

“We don’t know where he is!” Lestrade shouted in frustration.

“Until you do I will do whatever it takes, _whatever it takes_ , to solve this case, do you understand?”

“And if you do anything like this again we will have you sectioned, do _you_ understand?” Lestrade hissed, his patience at an end.

Sherlock’s sneer transformed into a snarl.  “I’d like to see you try.”

“Sherlock—“

Lestrade’s words were cut off by a howl and he watched in horror as Sherlock’s thin, wan face collapsed.  “And why should I stop?” he said, his voice broken.  “Who is here to care if I do?  Who is here for me, to care for me and watch me _for me_ and not out of some sense of duty?  Who would care if I was sanctioned, who would come to see me and advocate for me?”

“You’ve never—“

“I never needed it before, is that what you were going to say?” Sherlock asked, his words ramping up to a breakneck pace.  “Yes, of course that’s what you were going to say, why shouldn’t you?  You knew me before, back when I didn’t care, when sentiment was a vice and I vowed I would never fall into that trap.  You knew me then and saw how I turned away anyone who tried to befriend me, to the point where _Freak_ and _Psychopath_ became acceptable nicknames for me.  Why would anyone want to be my friend?”  His words trailed off and he lifted a trembling hand to his lips.  His eyes were wet with unshed tears, and Lestrade idly wondered how it was possible that Sherlock had even enough moisture in his body to produce tears.  “But . . .John.  John wanted to be my friend.  He thought I was—well, you heard him.  He thought I was amazing, brilliant.  He laughed with me.  He helped me and supported me and defended me.  I think . . .I think he . . .”

“You think he died for you.”

Sherlock’s face transformed again from grief to blank stillness.  “You should go.”

Lestrade rose from the sofa and made his way to the door, casting a furtive glance around the flat and noticing how it was still littered with John’s things, as if the man had just stepped out for a pint or a run to the shops and would be back momentarily.  “Listen, Sherlock, has anyone in his family—you know—“

“No.  Now go.”

“Right.”  Lestrade made his way downstairs, not bothering to say goodbye.

**8.**   
**THE STREETS OF LONDON**

Duty and honor, those had once been his calling.  Sebastian Moran moved through the streets of London, a man without a home, without even a country of his own.

Not that he minded.  He was a military man, a former colonel, and he was used to being adrift in the world to serve a higher purpose.  And . . .he had that, now.  That was more than he’d had in . . .well, years.  It was nice, even if it had been a twisted sort of duty that had brought him and his current boss together.  Besides, it was so easy to believe in the man.  He had a mad sense of purpose, and that purpose had rubbed off on Moran.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the text message:

_Target acquired. Time to dance. Meet at Tower, 30 mins. Bring scope. –J_

Moran’s smile was dark and cruel.  One last dance, then he could rest.  He’d earned his rest; even his mad-bastard of an employer couldn’t begrudge him a little time off.

**9.**   
**THE TOWER OF LONDON**

Sherlock stumbled as he made his way from the cab stand into the grounds of the Tower of London.  He was shivering despite the warmth of the summer night and the press of the tourists all around him.  Even so, he felt a soaring form of triumph in his soul.

Moriarty was close.  He knew it.  The final problem would be solved tonight, and then he could finally go to his longest sleep.

To be honest, he was desperate for that sleep.  He’d deprived himself of sleep long enough that fantasy was blending into reality and his days became one long segue into dreams.  His faculties were compromised, but then again it had been the dream-state that had revealed to him something he’d overlooked.  He’d demanded of Lestrade the text message histories of anyone who had been in the vicinity of the college that night.  He already had Moriarty’s number, but he knew that spider wouldn’t be stupid enough to carry the same phone in hiding.  He’d have another.  He only had to trace the new number or identify the number of one of Moriarty’s agents.

It was a stroke of genius.  After a matter of a week he’d been able to isolate the number and location of Sebastian Moran, a former colonel and reputedly the deadliest gun in Europe.  He’d read the latest message and followed the instructions to meet them here, at the Tower of London. 

_Ah-ah, Jim, repeating again?  Like Carl Powers and Connie Prince and the botulin, here we are again at the Tower of London._

He wrapped his coat more tightly around his emaciated frame.  He could almost hear John’s footsteps behind him, the stoic little soldier’s martial stride as he followed and protected Sherlock’s back.  He felt the old smirk on his lips as he thought about John, with him in battle as before.  _One last adventure, my Heart.  One last time._

He took a deep breath and martialed his once-considerable focus.  He scanned the environment, observing the way the tourist sheep flocked to the exits as the Beefeaters issued their closing announcements.  He was looking for any aberration of behavior, anyone who was just as observant, wary, or alone as he was.

Like _there_ , that man in the tan jacket and baseball cap, alone.  Sherlock was approximately fifty yards behind him, and a thrilling sense of the chase propelled him forward.  After several long strides he was able to determine that the hair under that cap was short and raven-black.

 _Moriarty_ , his mind crowed.  There would never be a better time.  His right hand curled around John’s gun in his coat pocket and he flicked off the safety as he broke into a sprint.

Several things happened nearly simultaneously:

A flash from the Brass Mount, one of the defensive watchtowers, then the silent _zing_ of a bullet passing too close to his head.

A shout—in a voice too dear to be real.

An impact as a body slammed into his own and drove him to the ground.

Another flash, this time from his own level on the grounds of the Outer Ward.

Sherlock’s mind swam as he looked up from the grass on which he was reclined.  A face, oh, a face handsomer than any other came into view, shaded with concern and—love?

“Sherlock, you git.”

 _John._   Sherlock smiled.  Perhaps all those nutters who babbled about the experiences of the nearly-dead hadn’t been wrong.  This was it, then; he’d been shot and he was bleeding out here at the Tower of London, and he had been given one last moment with his Heart before it was all over. 

“I love you,” he said simply and sincerely, his hands scrabbling for one last touch.

“Shut up,” John said back, but Sherlock knew what he _really_ meant.  His hand was wrapped in John’s, and as he faded away he wondered why he felt only a mild discomfort, but no piercing pain . . ..


	3. No Going Back/Everything's Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, listen to me. I know what you were planning, what you were going to do. Molly told me everything. I know you were going to fake your death and go after Moriarty. How long do you think it would have taken you to take him down? Months? Years? Do you have any idea what that would have done to me?”

**10.**   
**ST. BART’S, PART ONE (MYCROFT AND JOHN)**

“You could have told me, Mycroft.”

“You told me not to.”

“I told you not to because I trusted that you wouldn’t let him waste away before your very eyes, you twat!”

“ _Let_ him?  Did you think I could _stop_ him?”

“No, you know what?  Fool, me, for trusting you to take care of him at all.  Your version of taking care of people involves sanitariums and family secrets told to madmen.  That’s where we started this after all, isn’t it?”

John was pacing the hall outside Sherlock’s hospital room.  His hands repeatedly curled into fists and uncurled again, the very image of violent indecision.

“John—“

“You remember you told me that you hoped I’d have the opportunity to physically harm you one day.  I think today might be the day.”

“John—“

“You are his _brother_ , Mycroft.  What the hell was the purpose of me taking that damned pill if you weren’t going to look after him until I got back?”

“John!”

“What?”

“Were _you_ ever able to feed him when he wasn’t interested in eating?”

“Sometimes.”

“And could _you_ make him drink when he claimed not to be thirsty?”

“Yes, it happened.”

Mycroft smiled.  “What do you think that says about how he feels about me versus how he feels about you?”

“I—what?”

Mycroft favored John with a courteous little bow.  “John, I am clearly not the person Sherlock has chosen as his . . .caretaker.”

“Because you’re shit at it.”

“As you say,” Mycroft said gravely.  He traced little patterns on the linoleum floor with the tip of his umbrella.  “I am certainly not invested in it the way he prefers.”

“Not even a little bit.”

“You performed admirably, Doctor Watson.  If you are ever interested in pursuing a . . . _different_ . . .line of work, you will be very welcome.”

“No.  I’m a doctor.”

“Who has no reservation to kill anyone who dares to harm—“

John connected a firm right hook to Mycroft’s jaw, one so devastating it drove The British Government to the floor. 

Before the nurses could swarm around him, he loomed over Mycroft and said in a tone as dark as December midnight: “You’re right.  And if you hurt him again or allow him to hurt himself on your watch, I _will_ kill you.”

John spun away and entered Sherlock’s room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Mycroft spat blood on the linoleum flooring and let the nurses haul him into a wheelchair.

**11.**   
**MYCROFT’S OFFICE**

“Colonel Moran.”

“Mr. Holmes.”

“Please, have a seat.  Brandy?”

“Er, no.  It’s barely gone two.”

“Right you are.  Mind if I indulge?  Very well.  So then.”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations on a successful conclusion to your operation.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m sure you’re eager to return to civilian life.”

“It would be appreciated.  I’m quite . . .weary.”

“I’m sure you are.  Just a few questions, then.”

“Go on.”

“How did you dispose of Moriarty’s body?”

“Ah, yes.  Surprised you didn’t ask sooner; he’s been dead a month now, after all.  Cyanide pill, nasty business.  Took him to a man Moriarty introduced me to, confidential operation, very discreet.  He wouldn’t appreciate it if I told you too much.  He’s . . .valuable.”

“Valuable to the underworld.”

“You’d probably not be surprised if I forced you to admit that’s not strictly true.”

“So you don’t know the specifics of Moriarty’s final resting place.”

“I suspect the Adriatic.  It’s the man’s MO.”

“Right.  Do you want to give a statement about the end of that?”

“Only that the way Dr. Watson handled the scene—I was . . .impressed.  I don’t impress easily, but he took the damned pill even knowing that there was no way I could be sure of the ketotoxin dose.  He was aware of where that bottle from my left hand was at all times, but he wasn’t _obviously watching_ it.  He’s a madman, do you know that?  I’ve never seen anyone so focused.  I work with snipers, and that’s saying something.  He’s one of the best snipers I’ve ever seen, but more than that, he’s . . .”

“Go on.”

“I want to say _dedicated_ , but that’s not enough. _Tenacious_?  _Devoted_.  That’s it.  He was _devoted_ to eradicating Moriarty and all traces of his network, and he wanted to get it done quickly so he could get home.  That kind of focus . . .it made it easy for me to submit to his command.”

“Do you think the two of you got them all?”

“Yes.  Botwick was the last, and it was him we did for at the Tower.”

“Good.  Good.  And how do you feel Dr. Watson performed at the end?”

“Again, madman.  As soon as he saw Holmes—the younger, o’course—he left it to me to get Botwick, who almost got him, got them both.  He ran right into the line of fire.  I wanted to shoot him for being so damned stupid.”

“Thank you for resisting the temptation.”

“Right.  What else?”

“That’s all, Colonel.  Thank you again for your service.”

“You can thank me by not calling me for at least six months, got that?”

“Yes sir.”

**12.**   
**ST. BART’S (JOHN AND SHERLOCK)**

John had changed.  So many things about him had changed that he felt as if nobody should recognize him anymore, that he should be physically different somehow.  He thought he walked differently.  He knew he _smelled_ differently—no longer wreathed with the aromas of home, the tea and the biscuits and the newspapers and the residual scents of experiments gone awry.  He smelled like a military man again, a man too familiar with stakeouts and food eaten out of tins and cold, weak coffee.

He’d gone through the whole thing before in service to Queen and Country, just as Colonel Moran had.  His motives this time, however, were not the same as Moran’s, who still served Queen and Country, just in a different way.  John hadn’t done it for Her Majesty.  John had done it for His Highness.

He smiled affectionately before turning back from his contemplation of the scene outside the window—the kerb below seeming odd of a sudden—and again faced what remained of Sherlock, still as a corpse in the hospital bed.  The smile dropped from his face and he felt that warm affection shatter into a brittle anger towards everyone who had let him down: Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft—Mycroft above all.

Yes, he understood what Mycroft had told him, that Sherlock was Sherlock and no one could talk him into doing a thing he didn’t want to do.  He knew that.  But who else could he hold responsible for the wasted spectre in that sad, sterile bed? 

Okay, certainly he could blame himself for leaving, but even his absence—which, if he was to believe the accusing looks and exclamations of relief, had caused so much harm—had to eventually rest on Mycroft’s doorstep, didn’t it?  Because if that pompous pastry-stuffed idiot hadn’t tried to entice a lunatic with family secrets, John and Sherlock would likely be at Baker Street right now and all of this nonsense about _sentiment_ and _love_ would be far more easily ignored.

It could never be ignored now.  Not when John had literally offered his life—twice—for this man, and not when John’s absence had caused so much damage to that precious _transport_.  John was pragmatic, but even he couldn’t see any other reason Sherlock would have abused himself so thoroughly.  The only variable had been John, and John’s absence had driven the man mad with grief.

He sat heavily in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed and watched him sleep, feeling a deep ache settle again in his chest.  He marveled at the sensation; he’d never felt anything like it before, not for anyone.  He’d never before been so willing to give it all up—his identity, his freedom, his very _life_.  And, as he regarded Sherlock Holmes’s sleeping face, he realized he would do it again.  Gladly.  Without reservation.  Whatever it took to keep that genius alive.

He would not do so for anyone else, not even Sebastian Moran, a fellow soldier who’d shown John loyalty and true grit down the scope of a rifle.  John felt that old comrade-in-arms variety of love for Colonel Moran, but that love could never be enough to change him, not like this.

He lifted Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his lips.  This love—yes, this love had changed him.  It did not matter at all that Sherlock was a man.  John had spent the last four weeks contemplating the changes he’d gone through, not the least significant of which had been the revolution in his sexuality.  After Mycroft had confronted him with the depth of his regard for Sherlock, and after he’d completed the first stage of the operation—during which he took a ketotoxin pill and slipped into a temporary death—he’d had to face the fact that he couldn’t think of a single other person he would have taken that risk for.  He remembered coming out of that state of suspension and thought about what it took for him to hunt with Moran, what it took for him to pull the trigger and end life after life.  In the end, finding motive was simple.  He had stared down the scope of a rifle and thought: _This person is a threat to Sherlock’s life._

After that revelation came so many more, all culminating in the certainty that when he was finally able to return to Baker Street he would confess what he felt. 

“But you beat me to it, love,” he whispered as he regarded those long, graceful fingers, thinking of Sherlock gazing up with him from the lawn at the Tower of London, his eyes wide with undisguised devotion, so much love John could barely believe it was Sherlock at all.  Those three words, that emotion shining in bottle-green eyes . . .nothing could come close to it.

“I beat you to what?”

John’s head snapped up.  Sherlock’s eyes were open and he was gazing unabashedly at where their hands were joined.  John waited until Sherlock’s glorious eyes made their way back to his own, then he again lifted his hand and placed it against his lips.

Sherlock’s lips parted and his eyes dilated before he closed them, a helpless sigh escaping him.

“Sherlock,” John whispered against his hand.

“You’re alive.”

“Yes.”

“You bastard.”

“You would have done it to me.”

“ _For_ you.”

“That’s all I did.  I did it _for_ you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“John—“

“Sherlock, listen to me.  I know what you were planning, what you were going to do.  Molly told me everything.  I know you were going to fake your death and go after Moriarty.  How long do you think it would have taken you to take him down?  Months?  _Years?_   Do you have any idea what that would have done to me?”

“Something like it did to me?”

John sighed, staring again into Sherlock’s face.  His eyes were bloodshot and swimming with tears.  His face, usually so well-groomed and nearly boyish, was stretched tight over his skull and overgrown with stubble.  His lush lips were cracked and dry.  And he was still the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

“We go together, then,” John said.  “I can’t bear to be apart from you again.  I just . . .I can’t bear it.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.  “Apparently I can’t, either.”  He lifted John’s hand, still clasped in his own, and placed it over his narrow chest.  “My Heart.  Please stay.”

“Always.”

Sherlock gave a sharp nod and opened his eyes.  He didn’t release John’s hand, but he was all business again.  “Fine.  Tell me how it was done.  A secret agent inside Moriarty’s organization, otherwise you would never have gotten through it so quickly.”

John smiled, the first sincere smile he’d felt on his own face in far too long.  “Yes.  A former army man, like me.”

“Gave you a what, ketotoxin pill?”

John nodded.

“And gave Moriarty an identical cyanide pill.”

“Yes.  Moran got the body cleared out before you got there.”

“Emergency services . . .MI5?”

John nodded again.

“And you got them all.”

“Every one.”

Sherlock shook his head and affected a sorrowful countenance.  “Oh, John.  What do we do with ourselves now?”

John laughed, a high-pitched giggle of glee he hadn’t exercised in far too long.  He saw Sherlock’s face go soft and wondering.  “I suppose we’ll have to content ourselves with pedestrian mysteries.  No more grand adventures for you.”

“Not without you, at least.”

“Never, ever without me, you thoroughgoing idiot.”

“I’m an idiot?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t the one risking his life to prove he’s clever this time.”

“That’s not why I did it,” John whispered, leaning close over Sherlock’s face.  He could smell a sharp tang of something medicinal, an antiseptic perhaps, but it didn’t put him off at all.  “I risked my life to prove you’re loved.”

Sherlock’s breathing rate was increasing, and his heart monitor had adopted a far more strident pace.  “John.”

John slipped his hand along Sherlock’s neck and cupped his jaw in his palm.  “I love you,” he whispered before covering Sherlock’s chapped lips with his own.

The kiss was pure and didn’t last anywhere near long enough, but both men knew it was just the beginning.

**13.**   
**SPEEDY’S CAFÉ**

“Mrs. Hudson!”

Mrs. Hudson laughed when she saw Molly Hooper waiting at the table by the wall.  “Molly, dear, how are you?” she asked, collecting the girl against her in a sweet hug before having a seat across from her.

“Fine, just fine, thanks,” Molly said, sitting again.  “And you?”

“Delighted,” Mrs. Hudson answered with a smile.  “The boys will be coming home today, together.  Couldn’t be happier.”

“But . . .you’re leaving.”

“Oh, just a quick trip to Birmingham to visit my niece.  Not a few days.”

“But—“

Mrs. Hudson’s smile soured, just a little.  “Well.”  She pressed her lips together primly and cast her eyes around the room before leaning across the table and saying, “I love those two, but I think . . .”  She leaned back again and cleared her throat.  “They should probably have some privacy for a bit, don’t you think, dear?”

Molly blushed and fidgeted.  “Yes, well.”

Mrs. Hudson patted Molly’s hand.  “The less said, the better.” 

**14.**   
**BAKER STREET, PART 4 (SHERLOCK AND JOHN)**

John paid the cabbie and turned in time to see Sherlock turn away in a swirl of overcoat, his gloved hand out to open the door to 221B Baker Street.  For just a moment his mind disconnected from reality and he wondered if the past month had been nothing more than his imagination; they could just as easily have been returning home from a particularly daunting case, business as usual—“Would you like some tea, Sherlock?” “Don’t mind if I do, John.” “Mind if I turn on the telly?” “God, not Monty Python again.”—just another day at Baker Street.

The jarring illusion held until John closed the door behind him and turned to find Sherlock standing in the hallway, his jaw twitching and his eyes blazing.  He advanced on John, his still-too-thin body thrumming with need.  Before John could even blink Sherlock had his upper arms grasped in his hands and—

 _Oh._   The kiss was lush and raw, a perfect vehicle for Sherlock’s need, Sherlock’s desire, Sherlock’s own trembling doubt that John still wanted this.  He felt Sherlock’s tongue enter his mouth, insistent and slick and warm and—

The kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun.  “John, say it again.  For the love of God, say it again.”

John looked up into Sherlock’s face and understood immediately.

* * *

_A dream.  It all had to have been a dream._

Sherlock felt that thought circling his brain and thought he would very shortly go mad with it.  A part of him knew better, of course; he knew that the past month hadn’t been a dream, felt it in his own starved body and the alteration of his very psychology, the way he was even more attuned to John’s presence than ever before.  Even so, he was healed enough to be at full strength, and the return to Baker Street with John seated beside him in a cab brought on such a violent wave of—nostalgia?  Déjà vu?—that Sherlock could easily see an alternative reality, one where all of it had been in his head.

There it was then.  He could choose.  He could find a way to return them to the lives they lived before, easy companionship in armchairs with thrilling episodes of activity, stretching out and out until—

Until John left.  Because he would.  Why wouldn’t he?  Sherlock couldn’t forever be the only one in the world to recognize the singularly exceptional nature of his chosen companion.  Someone else would see it eventually and give John everything in exchange for his everything.

Then there was no choice, not really, because Sherlock could not abide a future without John.  It was up to him to give John everything.

_“I love you.”_

The words resounded through his memory and, very suddenly, Sherlock was desperate to hear them again, to wrap them around himself and use them as a balm to his wounded psyche because, in any world in which John Watson loved him, nothing could harm him.  Absolutely nothing.

The sound of John closing the door to the outside world was like cannon fire and Sherlock turned to him, seizing him and taking a kiss from him.  He wanted to sketch with his lips the portrait of his need and he thought he’d succeeded, but it still wasn’t enough.

“John, say it again,” he demanded.  “For the love of God, say it again.”

“Sherlock, I love you.”

A wave of pleasure shot through him, radiated out from his heart through his extremities, and he crushed John’s mouth against his again.  John responded eagerly, wrapping his strong arms around Sherlock’s waist and pushing him forward.

“Up,” John murmured against his lips.  “Upstairs, Sherlock.  Now.”

“Mmph, no,” Sherlock said, baring his teeth. He was fine just where he was, thank you very much.

“I’m not going to fuck you here in the hallway.”

Sherlock shuddered and berated himself for not having better control, but honestly, how could anyone have any sense of control after hearing those words in that voice, the voice of the man he loved rendered husky and commanding?  Even so he was able to pull himself together enough to taunt him: “Who says _you’re_ going to fuck _me_?”

John growled.  “Think it’ll be the other way round, do you?”

Sherlock was suddenly surprised to discover he was at the first landing up and he’d been stripped of his coat and jacket.  John was, distressingly, still fully dressed.  Something playful reared inside him, and he was overjoyed to feel that joy again; it had been missing far too long.  “I think you want me to take you that way, John,” Sherlock teased, lowering his voice to a register he’d never used outside of torturing Molly Hooper.  “I think you’d never give that to anyone but me.”

John shivered in his arms and Sherlock delighted in the sensation before he pulled him in for another kiss.  This one was unexpectedly tender; John had taken the next step up the stairs and was virtually at Sherlock’s level, so the kiss was easier on them both.  Sherlock felt a steady hand slip into his hair and imagined that hand holding a rifle and clearing the world of threats so they could be together like this.  He felt the clench of his emotion and wondered at it; after all, he was a Holmes.  He wasn’t supposed to be capable of feeling things in this way.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, pulling out of the kiss and leaning forward until their foreheads rested together.  The warm humidity of his breath bathed Sherlock’s face.  “There is nothing I wouldn’t give you.”

Sherlock saw tears sparkling in his doctor’s eyes and couldn’t stand it a moment longer.  He kissed him again, a kiss to heal, to reconcile and rebuild and erase all the hopelessness and sadness.  They clung to each other as their bond deepened there on the stairs leading up to their flat.

“John, please,” Sherlock gasped.  “Make me yours.”

“You are already mine,” John said, taking his hand and pulling him up the stairs after him. 

They didn’t say anything else, not in words.  They crossed the threshold of 221B together.  They stripped each other bare, Sherlock’s hands trembling and John’s hands perfectly still.  They got no farther than the couch, John watching with wide, arousal-darkened eyes as Sherlock sank to his knees and coaxed wordless cries of wonder from him.  John’s legs were all but useless afterwards, so Sherlock helped him to his bed and proceeded to gorge himself on John using all of his senses, trying to create a model of the man in his sense memory, a reconstruction he could carry under his skin and never be parted from.  He followed the gorgeous sight of him with the smell of him, carefully sampling the scents before he tasted each spot: fingers, elbows, neck, shoulder—yes, of course that scar—thighs, ears, everywhere.  John came around from his post-orgasmic swoon and started to respond with sound and Sherlock catalogued that as well, carefully repeating each motion that caused the gasps and moans and startled cries of pleasure.  And finally he used his lube-slicked fingers to build John to full arousal again, slicking him up and probing him and teasing him until he was frantic for Sherlock to penetrate him—and Sherlock did slowly, carefully, and he didn’t think it possible that this kind of pleasure could have existed in the world before now, but he thought if it had then every single crime committed by people who had experienced this and had it taken away from them was extraordinarily justified.

He would kill or die before he lost this, before he lost John, and he tried to let him know without words because damn it, words could not do this moment justice, nothing could, only sight and smell and touch and taste and hearing, only the now-living man beneath him, staring up at him with that old wonder that had made Sherlock happy, had made Sherlock whole—

Sherlock came apart at the seams, his hands on John’s cock and his mouth on John’s shoulder.  He didn’t know he was weeping until John wiped the tears from his cheeks some time later.

When words reappeared between them they were said in hushed murmurings and light smatters of laughter.  They were vows and promises and offers.  They were symbols and cyphers of things that couldn’t be said, and they were woefully inadequate . . .but they would have to do.

**15.**   
**NEW SCOTLAND YARD (LESTRADE)**

“Not every day I have a man back from the dead standing in my office,” Lestrade said, clapping John heartily on the back.

“It’s good to be back from the dead,” John said with a warm smile.

“And it’s good to see Sherlock back to his old . . .”  Lestrade trailed off.  Sherlock was currently standing at Sally Donovan’s desk and rifling through her files as she swatted at him and hurled abuse at him for his lack of boundaries.

“Shenanigans?” John offered politely.

“Yeah, we should probably go with that.”  Lestrade smiled at John and the two men chuckled.

“Look, Greg,” John said, casting his eyes warily about to ensure that they weren’t on the verge of being interrupted, “I’m sorry about what I said at the hospital.”

Lestrade shook his head.  “You were upset, mate.  I get it.  I do.”

“Doesn’t make it right.  I know how he is.”

“Meaning you know he won’t listen to anyone but you?”

John sighed and offered a weak one-shouldered shrug.  “Yeah.”

Lestrade crossed his arms and watched as Sherlock waved a file about, gesticulating around the office with his other hand as Sally stared him down, her lips tight—but her eyes dancing in merriment.  _She’s enjoying this_ , Lestrade realized, then had the corollary realization that Sherlock and Sally had turned their old enmity into a game.  “Look, John, I don’t want to know what’s changed between you—“

“We’re lovers.”

 _Okay then._   He swallowed.  “Did I not just say I didn’t want to know?”

“Too bad.  Everyone is going to be subjected to this information sooner or later.  Since you brought it up I decided to make you the rabbit.”

“The . . .what?”

John smiled.  “Never mind.”

Lestrade cleared his throat.  “As I was saying, all I care about is that you don’t disappear again.  This . . . _change_ . . .is going to make it harder on each of you if anything else happens.”

“Greg, I appreciate your . . .concern.  I really, really do, especially considering it was His Highness that got you in hot water in the first place.”

“His Highness?”

“Never mind.”

“Oh no, mate.  I’ll be using that.”

John sighed.  “Great.  Ta.  The thing is, we’ve chosen a rather . . .dangerous life, you know?  And I would die before I let anything happen to him.”

“And you’d subject him to hell that way.”

John swallowed.

“He’d do the same for you, you know.”

John nodded.  “I do.”

“That’s all I’m saying.  You two have to be careful, because I consider you both friends and I don’t want to lose either of you.”

They watched as Sherlock stood at the copier and railed against Donovan as she made copies of the file he wanted.  She shoved him twice and he subsided.  They both noticed as his eyes darted to John then darted away just as quickly.

“Promise me I won’t find you two locked in a Met supply cupboard someday.”

John grinned.  “Nope.”

Greg sighed.  Sherlock appeared at his office door with a stack of photocopied papers in hand, impatient as ever.  “Come on, John,” he said.

“His Nibs calls,” Greg said.

“Shut up,” John said, then quite conspicuously took Sherlock’s free hand and openly defied anyone to say anything—including Sherlock, who looked shocked as hell and whose face had erupted in a violent red blush.  He gave it a moment and, when nobody said anything—indeed, when it seemed the whole building had gone silent—he nodded.  “We’re off.  Text us if you get anything else.”

“Er, right,” Greg said, staring at the surface of his desk.

“Oh my God,” he heard Sally whisper in the thick silence.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, and he let a small smile creep onto his face.  “So . . .think a gift basket will cover it?”

After two seconds of stunned silence they both dissolved into fits of laughter.

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there is no such drug as "ketotoxin." It was made up to address the fictional drug that could make one slip into a "temporary death." (Liberties!)
> 
> Sorry about all the angst. I've had a really hard time lately and turned to the boys to help me out. Here's to everyone's happy ending.


End file.
